Me and the In Between
by Luciddreamer326
Summary: A Scully POV companion piece to my other story "The Journals." Small spoilers from the new movie due out next month.


The nights are darker here. I've learned to see creatures in the dancing silhouettes on the painted drywall. The wind is also harsher now. I build mountains out of covers as I burrow beneath their surface and try to suffocate sounds with cotton and silk. I do not like it here on nights like this-so I venture outward.

The metal in my coat pocket feels like a barbell, dragging my feet to stomp footprints in his carpet and splinter the wooden floor as I leave, visual proof of my weakness and inability to fall away from him completely.

I stare for a few moments. Time is essence and I cannot tarry too long. He senses me, smells me before I even become aware of myself. I have often thought of not wearing perfume to be raw and uncovered. It would not matter though. He would find me anyway.

My hair spills over my eyes as I hit the sheets, blondish-red strands mixing with a few tears. Eventually I weep and he reaches for me. I smell the cologne on his neck and feel the small beads of sweat cling to his brown locks. We say nothing to one another, just let our hands hold one another's broken bodies for fear they might exist permanently on the floor. We are good at this-consolation.

I always hope I can gather the courage to walk into his door tomorrow.

I never do.

* * *

I always hated serial killer cases. The criminal profiler in Mulder loved them. Our latest assignment had lead us out in the May rain to look for Jacob Rolph, Mulder's latest nemesis. We had seen Rolph escape murder charges two years previously, right after I was assigned to the X-files. As he walked by Mulder and smiled, I tried to imagine him a villain from the comic books, wearing something like the body suits the characters wore and a menacing mask. Instead, he looked too tiny and meek to create the chaos that he had.

I suppose that is why the let him off with a plea of insanity. After a year in a psych ward, they let him out to live with a few relatives who swore he they were capable of handling his care. Six months later he was MIA and they never saw him again. Now he was on the loose.

Everywhere, every turn-Idiots.

Shifting my focus back to present, the alley was dark, dingy, and stinking of a putrid odor. I tried to pretend that the smell was bearable, but when I looked over at Mulder, I saw my cover was faltering. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and I shot a warning look with my eyes as I continued to breathe through the small opening in my hand over my mouth.

Mulder craned his neck back to look up the fire escape on the side of the cracking brick building. Only one street light casted a faint glow on the blacktop, the rest remnants of hard days and bad occurrences.

Detective Jackson rambled on down the alley, calling out to us as he canvassed the area. His voice became hard to hear over the traffic of the nearby street as he disappeared farther into the darkness behind us. I let my eyes follow wander upward to the solitary lamplight, letting a large moth catch my eyes. It fluttered about, acting as if the wattage burned its carapace, but still gravitated to the luminosity.

Moving my eyes off of the moth, I looked down to see Mulder's shadow. Suddenly, it began to move in a myriad of directions, the dark matter of his hand waving at my matching form. Backing away from him, I took a few steps toward where Jackson had vanished. I wasn't in the mood.

"Nothing down there," Jackson said reappearing. "Looks like our perp didn't come back here last night for another body dump."

I nodded, having nothing to add. Mulder echoed my sentiment with a nod of his own and Jackson motioned back to the patrol vehicle.

As we started to move, I watched my shadow lead my out of the alley with Mulder's not far behind me. I tried not to let his touch me, to mold with mine. So much of the time it seemed like we were already one. I needed some definition of my own, a barrier that I knew I created.

The thought chilled me at the same time as I pondered what would happen if I stepped in his. What if I gave in to the attraction that I had felt growing? We had only known one another two years. It was too soon to be having thoughts like these. It was a mistake to be having them at all.

"There are worse things out there than shadows," Mulder said, glancing over at me from the corner of his eye.

"I don't know Mulder. What if there isn't?"

The coming years would bring plenty into my life.

* * *

Break. The word is familiar to my vocabulary but not in the medical profession sense. I do not eat. My fingers too often twitch for me to hold any object. Instead, I drum them on the countertop and stare past the admissions board, past every solid barrier in front of my eyes.

"Dr. Scully?" someone asks.

My eyes do not adjust and I throw up a hand.

"I'm on break," I hear myself say, then reach into my coat pocket for my phone and speed away from most forms of moving life.

The door slams loudly to the tiny room filled with vending machines. The luminescent glow creeps into the dusty corners of the space, the light overhead long dark due to missing pieces.

The machines glare at me menacingly and my thoughts go back to Dallas. Slight fear grips me and my feet carry my body out the back door of the infirmary to the smoking section. Sometimes, even Our Lady needs a puff of created fog to hide behind.

The night is cold, unforgiving. No bodies empty out of the pulsing life of the hospital. I am alone, like so many other times. The stars punch through the think night shroud. I think of Van Gogh as I scan the surrounding structures under the heavens. I feel time tick and chip away. I think of him. I do not move.

* * *

My mouth felt dry from asking all of the questions. Mulder sat silently by, a drowsy look plastered to his face. I felt his boredom. I wanted to strangle him.

He probably spent all of his free time logged onto UFO sites and reading stories about the paranormal while I had a headset strapped to my skull doing background checks. We had been stranded on this dead end road before, staring across the gap at our old lives on the X-files.

"No more 'Get out of jail free' cards Mulder. They are sticking it to us this time it seems," I had told him. His response was a grunt and I echoed it with an eye roll and a door slam to our office.

In my anger, I had managed to run smack into Kersh with Skinner hanging back like a sheepish, scolded child who has just been swatted on the hand.

"Get to New Jersey now," Kersh demanded.

So here we were, talking to one Georgia Spewell or Tallula Clyde, depending on whom you talked to and where, accused of extortion and harboring back taxes owed to the Federal Government. I feigned interest but when it came down to it, I just didn't care.

I kept telling myself, "By the book now." It never worked. The book was missing pages. Mulder started rewriting it years ago and I came along filling in the spaces and checking for grammatical errors.

"You should be in jail," Mulder blurted out from nowhere, sending waves of irritation over me. I had given him the speech about playing it safe and now he was just saying what he thought I wanted to hear.

Georgia's eyes were wide enough to show the tears forming the ducts. I glared at him for passing verbal judgment.

"Times are hard agent Mulder. I'm old," she cried.

Something in me cracked along with her voice and I felt tired. Mulder only nodded to her and stood quickly to leave. He was restless and bitter. They had stolen his compassion from him.

"We will be in touch," I covered, and then followed after him.

My legs worked frantically to catch him as he neared our government issue Taurus around 100 feet ahead of me. The wind was hot and unbearable. Sweat clung to the curves in my body and I huffed loudly. My hair whipped in my face as I called out to him. Not here, I pleaded silently, not now.

"I'd ask what is wrong but I think I already know," I growled at him.

"Not again," he moaned.

His eyes were slits in the bright sunlight and roamed aimlessly, focusing on nothing. My thoughts often stayed crammed in me too long. I had followed him everywhere, without question and now his resentment ate at me to the point where I made it personal. He could be so damned selfish sometimes.

"You acted like an asshole Mulder!" I shout.

Floods of people could have walked out their front door to hear me yelling at him in the middle of the street, people living in suburbia with trimmed yards full of toys, families living normal lives, doing normal things.

"I don't recall saying much of anything, _Scully_."

The emphasis on my name angered me more.

"Except your little 'jail' outburst. If you really think that, why not cuff her and haul her off?"

"She's sixty-eight years old Scully. Spending the last few years of life in prison doesn't seem all that enjoyable. I was just quoting…"

"She broke the law…"

"Fuck the law!" he yelled angrily. "We swore to uphold values and rules, both of which our own government breaks. Did someone care about the law when they took my sister? Or how about when they gave you cancer? Stable Mable in there makes off with 50k? I say, so what."

"What about the proof we have against her, records of at least 10k? We are here about the other forty."

"Destroy it. Then there will be no proof. Oh wait, that sounds like an X-file. Guess it is someone else's problem now."

I glared at him furiously, mostly because I agreed. This, once again, wasn't about our case work on my part. It was about us. But, I said nothing and slammed the car door shut. I had so much to say to him. Pride held it back.

He started the engine and threw the car into gear. Rolling again. I stared out the window as suburbia passed by my eyes, again. Forever forced to stare at normality, never able to touch it.

"We should be on the X-files," he said, barely a whisper.

"No, we should have husbands and wives, family dinners and you, children. We're getting close to forty, Mulder. We should be leading other lives."

"What if this is the life I want?"

"You can't mean that. What about love?"

"I always liked to think it would find me somewhere. That it would be right in front of me one day."

"And?"

He held up a hand, flicking his ring finger at me. It looked so pale, so bare. It was an exact replica of my own.

"No luck I guess," he smiled sadly.

Something, some part of his loneliness and melancholy deposited in me. I wasn't happy anymore and I could feel him shift next to me. He felt it too. They could write studies on him and I, our inability to get out shit together, seemingly forever doomed to sit on repeat. We had spent a lot of time recently running from one another.

He stalled at a stop sign and sat back slightly to stare not at me, but past me.

"What?" I questioned, and then followed his gaze.

A white object sat to the side of a home. I turned back to him and let my eyebrow rise.

"Sort of resembles a little, white Nazi storm trooper. Don't you think?"

I reached onto the dash and grabbed my sunglasses, throwing them on my eyes. Cover yourself Dana, I thought to myself. He will see through you. He will break every wall you erect.

"Looks like a weather balloon to me," I quipped.

Fight over, moving forward. So strange how angry words are better than none at all.

* * *

"I need to see you," he says.

My heart instantly aches. I long for him deeply, but I know I have lost some part of him when we touch. Or maybe I am missing pieces. It is hard to tell sometimes because I often don't know where I end and he begins.

"Mulder," I try to warn.

It comes out more as a plea. I don't want to be fully dependent on him. I want to stand on my own. I don't want to be watching cars pass by on the street anymore, hoping one of them will soon be him. But the man could breathe and crumble me.

"Meet me at the usual," I say, and then retreat to the silence. I disconnect, proving to myself that I can walk away from him. Part of me feels anger towards him. What is this encompassing hold he shuts me into? He should let me be free. I should let myself be free.

But I called him, a sad desperation and yearning to hear him say my name the way he does, for me to taste his on my tongue again. Resignation. Giving in to desire. Another starry night as my tires rotate towards him.

Crickets sit inside cocoons, dreaming of warm darkness and singing to the world. I think of bright stadium lights, the fresh cut grass on baseball fields, and a firm grip around my waist from strong masculine hands.

Crack, crack…crack. Horsehide meets stick. Boy's hips meet girls. Girl ends up whimpering boys name against an FBI rental sedan a few hours later.

We slowly created an emotional bond. I severed it with my emotional daggers.

I see him sitting on the bench that overlooks the water. I'm sure he remembers meeting Deep Throat at this spot, perhaps even me after we were split up after the first year.

My body will not move from the seat. The engine hums in my ears as I stare at him. He's still in good shape, lean and towering. I see a small bit of the boyish partner from long ago, but his face shows wear too, and sadness. I can almost feel his anxiety as he waits for me.

A solitary tear slides from my eye and my hands sweat against the steering wheel. Love for him molds me, defines me. I resent it. Something in my brain makes my hand move against the gear shift and put the car into drive. My heart feels heavy and numb. I do not look back as I drive away. My head will not turn.

* * *

I couldn't find him once. His door hung slightly ajar which sent fear coursing through my blood, freezing it in my veins. Nothing looked out of place however. No more than usual anyway.

Trudging back outdoors, I felt frustrated, lost. He was nowhere to be found, a missing piece in the jagged puzzle of life. My hands shook wearily, partially from the anxiety but the rest fro the cold. Ice crystals solidified my vapor breath and seemed to hit the pavement in a great commotion.

Suddenly, I saw it-the tousled top of his head on the roof, somewhere closer to Heaven I imagined.

Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop. The repetition of rubber soles on concrete stairway become a sing-song almost. Impatience clung at me, almost lethargically. The muscles in my claves burned and I knew I would feel this trek to the heavens tomorrow.

"What the hell?" I breathed.

It came out like the dying squeal of a wounded animal. Embarrassment gripped me but the frosty air helped hide it in my cheeks with a permanent red.

He didn't turn around as I let myself brush against his shoulder. Stargazing? Looking for UFO's? Weather balloons? I could only imagine.

"The Leonids," he smiled and pointed.

I saw nothing. What was new? I didn't let on.

"Or where they should be anyway," he admitted. "Full moon and slight cloud cover to the east. Factor in all of D.C.'s electric voltage and that's enough to drown out any beauty."

"I don't know. We still have the moon," I offer.

"Do you want the moon Mary? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it."

"Pretty large feat," I tell him.

I don't dare admit that I find him exceedingly dashing, more so than James Stewart. When it comes down to it, Fox Mulder is no Superman. Sometimes, he is even painfully ordinary despite his forays into the paranormal. He would die trying to attain the moon though if someone told him it was possible.

"Maybe I could just sprout wings, like Icarus, and get it for you that way," he grinned. Who needed the moon when the stars shown in his eyes?

"Icarus flew too close to the sun, despite heeds from Daedalus. Good story. Sounds familiar," I quip.

"Your Daedalus to my Icarus. My moose to your squirrel. Doesn't matter. They are still dynamic duos, just like you and me."

I shivered and he brought me closer to him, both of us providing much needed warmth to the other, Icarus drawn to the heat and Daedalus drawn to the intrigue. I tried to forget stories of fathers and sons, thinking of the moment at hand. We stood. We breathed. We hid from the sun.

* * *

His hair sticks up slightly in the back as I slowly tread into his office. I know this dwelling well, for it used to be mine. This space never ceases to overwhelm me. Every corner oozes his essence. His scent coats the air particles and clings to objects. If I ran, turn around and fled from this, I'd find him still on every fiber of me.

Empty shells fracture under weighted feet, long forgotten remnants of restless, dark nights and lonesome days. New piles are made with the hours. They become lost and scattered. Scraps, clippings, and posters clutter walls to stamp out blank spaces, to fill the nothingness with signs of life and attempts at vitality.

His shoulders sulk and he does not turn around as I descend farther into him and his soul. We catch each other with vibrant electricity in the air. He knows of my presence before I even define myself.

The creaking chair moves with force and he comes to face me. I look for his spark. I see only raging storm clouds.

His anger singes the exterior of my heart, but I know I deserve it. I deserve his wrath for lying, for leaving him alone like I have never wanted to be. I left him waiting on nothing and no one.

Imaginary dust billows between us, a showdown between two stubborn minds and mouths. Our fingers twitch with the anticipation of touch, of connection. Neither one of us want to be the one who makes the first move, even though we know it is resolution.

His eyes bore into me, tearing down emotional walls I have worked so painstakingly to create. It's over. I am gone.

I am on him, in him, fused again. My arms grip the weight of his body as if it is subject to erosion and he will be gone if I let go.

"I'm sorry," I manage to choke out.

I wish I were like Mulder, never wrong.

No, I tell him. I do not know where I fit in.

"You fit with me," he answers.

In four words, I am every explorer: De Vaca, Magellan, Columbus, and Deleon. It feels like the Fountain of Youth, the Holy Grail, and a detailed chart of all the stars to lead me across the world's seas. His truth is my treasure. It is simplicity delivered soothingly by the only one who understands the deepest parts of me.

Loss staggers and stumbles, eventually ceasing to exist. I feel myself fold and resign to the one thing I have always known.

"Yes," I admit.

"Here we go again?" he smiles.

I reach out for him and put his hand and mine, resting it against my chest so he can feel my heart beat. With the other, I trace his face.

"One last time."


End file.
